All Roads Lead to Bart's: A Collection of Alternate First Meetings
by englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: -Find this on AO3, same username- In this collection, John and Sherlock will have alternate first meetings that somehow end with them meeting at the lab at Bart's, or some version of it. If you have a prompt idea, please let me know! Will adjust overall rating to match most intense story. Each chapter is a complete story, and will have its rating tagged in the title.
1. Serious Inquiries Only - K

Jan 29 **Flatshare in Central London, Good Deal (Baker Street)** map

Male, 32, seeking one flatmate for 2 bedroom, 1 bath apartment on Baker Street. Excellent rent – landlady owes me a favor. Easily accessible by tube. See pertinent details and contact information below.

2 bedrooms, 1 full bathroom, sitting room, full kitchen Shared rooms will already be furnished 2nd floor walk-up (additional bedroom is on 3rd floor) I play violin, sometimes don't talk for days on end. Occasionally keep pieces of human remains in refrigerator (for science, legally obtained). May keep unusual hours due to my work. I do not cook, make tea, or replace empty milk cartons.

If interested, reply via email: ScienceofDeduction . Serious inquiries only. All others will be subjected to immediate personal analysis and inevitable humiliation. (See Mycroft? I am making an effort.)

\- WSSH

* * *

 **John H. Watson johnhwatson**

to me

WSSH,

My name is John Watson. I saw your flatshare advert online and I might be interested. I'm a 36-year-old army captain recently invalided home from Afghanistan, and while it's hard to afford London on an army pension, the thought of life in the suburbs drives me mad.

The location of the flat sounds excellent; however, I am a bit concerned about the walk-up, as I returned from the front with a rather severe limp on one side. Then again, I suppose I could call the stairs my daily physio, yeah? Well, anyway, I suppose we'll have to see.

I haven't ever considered finding a roommate online before, so I'm not sure what comes next. Do we meet and look at the place?

Sincerely,

John

* * *

 **S Holmes scienceofdeduction**

to me

John –

You were the first person to email me who didn't seem concerned about the caveats I listed in my advertisement. I have yet to decide what that says about you. Yes, perhaps we should meet. A few questions first:

Are you a practicing doctor? What is your general opinion of the London police? Why doesn't it bother you to have severed body parts kept in your flat?

Sherlock

* * *

 **John H. Watson johnhwatson**

to me

Dear Sherlock,

I'm in the process of looking for work as a physician currently, as I do carry a valid license. I suppose the London police are doing their best, though this recent spate of suicides does seem to have them a bit out of their depth (apologies if you are a police officer, though for some reason I suspect not). As for body parts… I never said it wouldn't bother me, I guess it's just not a deal-breaker. Especially if it's for science, right? Betterment of society and all that? What exactly is your profession, anyway?

Sincerely,

John

* * *

 **S Holmes scienceofdeduction**

to me

Consulting detective. Only one in the world – I invented the job. You're right, the police are out of their depths, as always. Coffee?

SH

* * *

 **John H. Watson johnhwatson**

to me

Dear Sherlock,

Sure, coffee sounds fine. I'm at St. Bart's hospital meeting with an old friend this afternoon – perhaps you know it? Could we possibly meet nearby? Send me a response by text, my mobile number is in the signature block.

Sincerely,

John

* * *

"Ah, Mike. Can I borrow your phone?"

"Sorry, left it in my coat."

"Here, you can use mine."

Sherlock eyed the short man now generously holding out his mobile. He'd never seen him before, and yet…

John – Am also at Bart's this afternoon, suspect I will be free soon. Can you come up to the lab where I'm working? – SH

A split second after Sherlock hit "send," the message tone chimed. He handed the phone back quickly and resumed his place at the microscope. There was a faint tapping of keys in the background, and then the message alert sounded again.

"Um… Sherlock?"

The detective grunted while continuing to study and make notes on whatever he was examining.

"Sherlock Holmes, from Baker Street?"

Now he turned his head sharply. Mike had told him. No wait, Mike doesn't know the new address. Who is this man?

"John. John Watson? I, uh… I suppose we'll just grab that coffee then?"


	2. About Face - K

The new lab assistant had been warned about this man, this consulting detective, whatever that meant, who would come round and verbally abuse staff without cause, and who for unclear reasons could not be ejected.

"What?" came the aggravated growl from behind the microscope.

"Nothing," he'd been standing there too long, staring. Staring… at what? He's just an ordinary bloke. Except for that giant coat draped over the centrifuge. Who owns a greatcoat these days?

"I SAID," the man continued, his impatience on the verge of hostility, "did you bring the samples?"

"Oh, yes, sorry, yes," the assistant mumbled, placing the collection of petri dishes into a large, pale, outstretched hand.

As the man turned his attention back to his slides, he paused a moment, considering this unfamiliar person through narrowed eyes.

"You're new," he stated in an almost disinterested tone.

"Yes, I've just started this week, in fact."

"Good."

"Yes. Wait, sorry, what's good?"

"That'll be all," the man waved his left hand in a dismissive gesture, and John fought the urge to look back over his shoulder as he slipped quietly from the lab.

* * *

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The sudden question startled John, who'd been taking inventory in the empty lab for nearly an hour. There in the doorway, artfully removing an expensive looking scarf, was that consulting detective.

"I… um… Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you…?"

"Will it disturb you if I work here?" the detective asked, already setting up equipment.

"No, as long as my moving supplies around won't – "

"It won't."

The two men worked in silence for what felt like hours before John built up the courage to speak again.

"I was wondering… if you might… fancy a coffee?"

"Mm. Black. Two sugars."

"That's not what I… um… ok."

As John returned, carrying two paper cups filled with slightly burnt-tasting cafeteria coffee, he vowed to stop letting this detective person rattle him so much. You were a soldier, Watson. Pull yourself together.

He nudged the door open with his foot, strode over to the man, and deposited the coffee by his notebook.

"What are you working on?"

"Case."

"What kind of case?"

The detective sighed and pushed his stool back, taking a moment to size up the man now leaning against his workspace drinking coffee.

"Potential homicide. Jealous sibling, drinking problem, supposed accident at home."

"But you think he was killed on purpose?" John inquired, fighting the tremor in his hand as he raised his cup to his lips.

"Yes. His brother did it. And if this reaction takes place as expected," he glanced back into the microscope and scribbled a few more notes, "yes, there. I've proven it."

John nodded once, then walked toward the door, pitching his cup in the bin on the way out. Though he murmured, "amazing," just loud enough to be heard, he was careful not to turn around. He didn't see the surprised look on the detective's face, or the unconscious smile at the corner of his mouth.

* * *

"So you play the violin?" John asked, interrupting the detective's thoughts.

"Listen, I don't have time for – "

John placed a coffee on the workspace. "Two sugars."

"Oh. I – " the man looked up suspiciously for a moment, then down into his cup, and back at John. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Any good?"

"No, it's dreadful, but what can one expect from – "

"I meant, are you any good. At the violin."

The detective paused a moment, then an expression of condescending humor came over his features.

"Ah, I see. I made a clever deduction about you the last time we met, and now it's your turn to show that you're clever. What, did you search for me on the internet? Or do you just have a very keen eye for callouses?"

John pointed to the man's satchel on a nearby stool. "Sheet music."

The man turned to his right, face falling as he saw the papers spilling from his bag.

"Oh. Well. I, um… I'm – "

He turned his head just in time to see a white coat hurrying out the door.

* * *

The consulting detective reluctantly removed his scarf and gloves as he entered the lab. It was unusually cold, even for January. Noticing the short figure bent over, replacing something in cold storage, he thought he'd better get this out of the way before it became too uncomfortable. Not that he was sure why he cared.

"Listen," he began, "about last time. I... Molly?"

"Oh, hello!" came the always chipper response. "What last time?"

"Thought you were someone else. Where's… um…" What's his name? Why don't I know? Why would I know?

"Where's what?"

"Who. That new lab assistant. The short one with the… hair."

"Hair? I think most of 'em have got hair," she giggled.

"Oh don't be deliberately obtuse. The military one. Short hair, dark blue eyes."

"D'you mean John Watson? He's working in another lab this afternoon."

"But he works here."

Molly shrugged. "I saw him on the lift, going up another floor. Why, do you need something? I can call Stevens…"

"No," he answered distractedly, tying his scarf back around his neck. "No, I suppose I'll just…"

He never finished his sentence, striding purposefully out the door toward the freezing London streets.

* * *

The lift was taking ages, each moment presenting an opportunity for him to second-guess himself. He hoped he would find the correct lab, and fast.

Peering through each narrow window as he passed, he was relieved when the third on the left showed him a glimpse of short blond hair and a set of test tubes clutched in a slightly trembling hand.

"John."

"Mm," he responded without looking up from the storage cabinet.

"John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

That got his attention.

"Can I help – oh, it's you."

"Yes, I… well, I…" he trailed off, holding out a large cup of expensive coffee. "Listen, John, I… about last time…"

"S'fine. Forget about it," John said shortly, returning to his task. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Very good," the man blurted, apropos of nothing.

"Sorry?" John said, closing the cabinet door and looking over his shoulder.

"The violin. I'm very good. I keep odd hours and sometimes don't speak for days on end. My brother is a bit, shall we say, over-involved, so the flat does tend to have surveillance equipment hidden around – poorly, of course. I do tend to get injured frequently in the course of The Work, though it's typically minor, and sometimes I keep samples of various… well, anyway," he suddenly became quite interested the seam on his coffee cup.

John hadn't turned around fully, hadn't met his eye at all. He was uncharacteristically disappointed, though he wasn't certain why. He slumped down onto a stool and pulled his mobile out of his pocket for something to occupy his hands.

"Right, well," John said, moving toward the doorway and lifting his cup, "thanks again."

The despondent detective opened a series of text messages without reading any of them, failing to notice that the lab assistant had returned.

"The name's Sherlock, then?"

Sherlock's head whipped around, his mouth falling slightly open. John looked back down at the cup in his hand, the personalized black marks barely legible. "Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock?"

Sherlock dumbly nodded his agreement.

"Baker Street, then. See you." And to Sherlock's astonishment, John Watson – army captain, lab assistant, and owner of the deepest indigo eyes he'd ever seen – winked before walking out the door.


End file.
